Philia
by shouvley
Summary: Peeta Mellark has two brothers, Arend and Tristan. Arend is too old to volunteer to take his place. Tristan is too scared. Terror from Tristan's point of view. Rated T for swearing. Winner of District 13 Missing Moments Contest. Link inside.


A/N: This won first place in the Missing Moments Challenge hosted by District 13 on LJ and I could not be more honored. Their ff name is also District13 if you would like to read the other entries, link is on my profile.

Thanks to mistyfate and floryp for betaing.

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. Suzanne Collins own the Hunger Games._

* * *

The sun rises over the hills and tints the sky pink. I sit in the chair that faces the open window and drink from the mug of coffee in my hand. The wind blows softly in, and I tighten my hold on the blanket around my shoulders. The shiver that runs through me is entirely involuntary and in no way related to the temperature.

Most mornings I enjoy being up before everyone else. The calm of the early morning is usually my favorite time of day. Not today though. It's going to take more than scenery to calm my nerves today.

I glance over my shoulder, assuring myself that I'm still alone, and move to the cupboard above the stove. Pulling the door open, I push the tins aside until I find the one I'm looking for. I tug the lid off and inhale deeply. My father has good taste. He doesn't think we know this is here, but there are few secrets in our house. I'd known of his hiding place since I was thirteen.

I look inside the tin and notice the stock is getting low. He always seems to go through it faster in the weeks before the reaping.

Setting the container on the table, I pull the papers out and set one flat. I pour the tobacco onto it and proceed to roll my cigarette. I'm still pretty poor at it, but it's only my third time trying. I didn't completely cover the table in loose tobacco, so I consider it a success. I run my tongue over the glue strip and press it down. Pulling the lighter from its place next to the oven, I flick the flame up to lick the end of my cigarette.

I take a long pull and hold it in my lungs as long as I can. The first two times I smoked, I had a coughing fit on the first drag. This time, I feel the smoke penetrating my lungs and will the coughs away. I need all the calm I can get without choking it out before I've used it. The effect is immediate, though not quite as strong as I had been hoping. I take another drag on my way back to my chair.

Wrapping the blanket back around me and puffing on the cigarette, I take in the sunrise and do my best to think about anything but this afternoon.

The floorboard creaks behind me, and I jerk my head around to see Peeta entering the kitchen. I have no chance to hide the cigarette, so I just look at him guiltily. He shrugs and grabs a cup from the shelf above the sink, filling it with water. He turns and leans against the table, staring past me and out the window.

"Does that help?" he asks, gesturing to the cigarette in my hand.

I shrug. "Not enough," I admit.

He takes a swig from his cup and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks at me with a nervousness I've rarely seen from him and turns his gaze downward.

"Will you roll me one?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the floor.

I nod and stand silently, flicking the butt out the window. I make sure to check the street below before I let go. Littering is a punishable offense, though I'm sure today it would be overlooked.

Moving over to the table, I pour out two more heaps onto the little papers. I roll them quickly and hand one to Peeta along with the lighter.

"Don't inhale deep the first time. Just hold it in as long as you can."

He nods and flicks the lighter, igniting the cigarette and taking a drag. From the look on his face, I can tell he pulled the smoke in too deep, and he immediately starts choking and coughing. I smile ruefully at him and take the lighter from his hand, lighting mine and holding it between my thumb and forefinger.

"It takes practice, but you'll get better at it," I assure him.

He gives me a sad smile. "I have no doubt. I still have two more years to go. You're free and clear after today."

I nod once, almost feeling guilty. Then I remember that I was eligible two years before he was old enough. I did my time then. And it's much scarier as a twelve- and thirteen-year-old than as a seventeen- and eighteen-year-old. Though, coming from District 12, it rarely makes a difference.

I remember the panic I felt, year after year, knowing it will be the same again today. My heart is already beating harder than normal. At about noon, the pace will pick up even more. By the time we leave for the reaping, my blood will be pounding so loudly in my ears I will barely be able to hear my father's whispered words of encouragement and assurances that seven entries aren't really all that many. Finally, once I'm standing with the rest of the guys my age, at the front of the group this year, I will come close to passing out when that cunt Effie Trinket reaches her hand into the bowl. I'll hold my breath until she reads the name and come close to collapsing when I realize it's not mine.

This has been the tradition for the last six years, and I'm certain it'll continue today.

As I glance over, I realize Peeta is wearing the same expression I know I am. He's just as unsettled as I am by the prospect of today's events. There's nothing that either of us can say to comfort the other. We both know the odds are mostly in our favor, never taking any tesserae, but we also know that all it takes is one slip with our name on it to find its way into that bitch's hands.

In the early morning air, Peeta and I stand there in the middle of the kitchen, smoking our cigarettes until they start to burn our fingers and bonding over things we can't say in words.

* * *

I want to have another cigarette but as soon as I finish my second one someone starts pounding on the back door.

It turns out to be Gale Hawthorne with a squirrel to trade for some bread. Our father comes downstairs and makes the exchange with him. As our father takes the squirrel upstairs to save for dinner, I notice Gale is still standing in the doorway, arranging his bag before leaving. I consider wishing him luck this afternoon but decide against it. I said it two years ago, and he just stared at me like I'd told him I was going to kill him myself. Apparently, it's not a nice thing to say to someone who has ten times more entries than you.

When we leave to go outside at a little after one, my stomach is in knots. As I walk through the square toward my designated corral, my feet feel heavier and heavier. By the time I reach my spot, I feel rooted as if I'll never move again. Honestly, if my name is picked, I'm not sure how I'll make it up to the stage. Though by that point, I'm sure it's an out-of-body experience.

I do my best to put on a brave face, but everyone has to know how terrified I am. They're probably all feeling the same way. We don't joke around like we normally do in school. Instead we all stand huddled together – practically shoulder to shoulder – as if being in one big group and showing solidarity will do anything for us. We all know we can be picked. And we all know we don't have a chance once we get in the arena.

I notice Shira, my sort-of-girlfriend, at the front of her compound, looking sick. She's wearing a dress that obviously belongs to her mother and twists the skirt in her hands, keeping her eyes on the ground. Her dirty blonde hair is tied up on top of her head, and I can see her neck glistening with sweat. It's not that hot out today. I wish she would look up and let me give her a reassuring look, but I don't know if I would be very successful just now. Maybe after her name isn't called we can share a look of relief.

Everyone knows District 12 kids don't have a shot in hell. We never get sponsors and our mentor is a joke. I try not to think about this though. It doesn't do me any good to think about what will happen if I get picked. Instead, I choose to make an effort to understand I'm not likely to be picked.

I take a few deep breaths, feel my heart still racing at a rhythm that seems unsafe, and know that I'm not good at forced realizations.

The mayor starts reading the History of Panem, and I space out, scanning the crowd for the faces of people I know. If my name is called, this will be the last time I ever see them.

I see Gale Hawthorne again, standing a few feet down from me. He's glancing backward and smirking at someone. As I follow his line of sight, I see that it's Katniss Everdeen that's got his attention. She even returns with a small smirk of her own. It doesn't surprise me. Though he claims there's nothing between them, it's obvious that even if there isn't right now, one day there will be. Normally, she looks at everyone with the same scowl on her face. Gale is the only one capable of getting anything but a scowl from her, a fact that saddens me slightly. She's a beautiful girl. It's unfortunate she had to grow up in the Seam, though she seems content to stay there.

After I shift my gaze, I notice my parents and Arend standing off to the right of the stage. My father looks nervous, but my mother looks calm. I figured out years ago that the reason why she was so tough on us was because she knew that at any point she could lose one of us. She doesn't want to be one of those women who loses one of her children and can't get on with life. If that were to happen, she would still have a husband and two other sons to feed. I don't know that I agree with her philosophy, but I have to respect it. People deal with grief in their own ways, and she's doing her best to avoid it entirely. Okay, I don't really respect that, but she's my mother, so I can't hate her for it either.

I hear that Trinket cunt clear her throat and read the name of the female tribute.

"Primrose Everdeen," she calls out in her affected Capitol accent.

I hear a small scream echo behind me and see Katniss Everdeen running up behind her little sister. She reaches her sister and throws her arms around her, pulling her out of the way, all the while screaming, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

I take a deep breath. That is love. Familial love that I have never experienced. We appreciate each other for the work that we contribute and the proximity we inhabit. But for me to say that I love my family was a stretch. We get along well enough but we've never exactly been in an environment that encouraged love and devotion. I can't imagine volunteering for anyone in my family. And it wouldn't be expected of me either.

Once the younger girl is dragged away from her sister – by none other than Gale Hawthorne – and Haymitch has managed to knock himself unconscious _again_, it's time to face my fears. My last opportunity to have my name pulled from that glass ball is upon me. I have seven entries in there and it's all I can do to not calculate in my head my exact odds. I know it has to be at least a thousand to one but you still never know.

When that Trinket cunt stands in front of the microphone with the paper in her hand, my hands start to shake uncontrollably. I clench and unclench them, trying not to be so obvious, and I notice others doing the same thing. We aren't like other districts. None of us want to hear our names called.

She opens her mouth and as soon as her mouth forms a P, I know I'm in the clear. I let out a deep breath, and before I know it she's finished calling the name. It takes a couple of seconds to sink in.

She just called Peeta Mellark.

My head doesn't start spinning right away, because as predicted, as soon as I realized it wasn't me that was picked I almost collapsed to the ground with all of the relief suddenly coursing through me. It isn't until I really think about what I heard that I realize the name that was called has the same last name as me.

My stomach drops and rolls as I see Peeta making his way to the stage. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to make sense of things. A million thoughts are racing through my mind, and the only thing I can think is _I can't volunteer for him_. It's horrible, but it's true. I love my brother, but not as much as I love myself. I don't stand a chance in the arena. Maybe Peeta's luckier than me. Though he was unlucky enough to be picked, so I don't know how far he'll get just on luck.

As Peeta mounts the first stair, then the second, I look past him and catch Shira staring at me. Her mouth is open slightly, and it looks like she's waiting for something. It takes me a few moments to realize what exactly she's waiting for. She's waiting for me to volunteer for Peeta. I just turn my eyes downward in an expression of the guilt and regret swirling around me. She'll understand what it means.

I can barely keep myself upright as Peeta keeps walking. It seems as though time is slowing down with each step he takes toward the stage. When he reaches the final step, he glances over his shoulder, and his eyes lock with mine. All I can see in his expression is acceptance.

He didn't expect me to volunteer for him, just as he wouldn't have volunteered for me.

* * *

I follow my mother into the room with my father and Arend following behind us. Peeta's back is to us, and when he turns around I can tell it's all he can do to keep it together.

My father sits him down on the couch and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"You have an hour," my father reminds him. "Just let go."

Peeta takes this as his cue and tears start streaming steadily out of his eyes. It's in this moment that he looks so much like the little brother I used to know before the threat of the Games pushed everyone apart. When I could still be counted on to name my brothers as my very best friends. When had that all changed? Why did I think it was okay to love my friends more than I loved my family?

My shoulders start shaking as well, but I know I can't break down here. Peeta doesn't need to see my remorse. It won't do him any good.

My mother sits down on Peeta's other side. "Maybe District 12 will finally have a winner," she muses while setting her hand on Peeta's knee in a show of comfort. "She's a survivor, that one."

Everyone in the room turns and gapes at her, not sure what to say. I know better than to contradict her. Katniss Everdeen is the best hunter in the District; everyone knows that. But it's hardly the appropriate topic of conversation when her own son is going to have to face her in the arena where, by definition, only one can survive. I'm starting to feel sick at the thought of having to watch my brother be killed.

Peeta stares at her incredulously before he stands and walks to face the fireplace.

"Mom," he says with his back to her. "You can leave now."

She stares at him for a moment before she stands and heads for the door. She stops with her hand on the doorknob and speaks. "I really will miss you." Then she's gone.

Peeta's shoulders start to shake again and Arend tries to comfort him, tries to give him advice for the arena, tries to tell a stupid joke to get him to laugh. Peeta stares at him like he's grown another head until he silences and stares at the rest of us uncomfortably. I can't think of anything to say that will help the situation, so I choose to remain quiet.

Finally, my father breaks the silence. "Do you really think you don't have _any_ chance?" he asks.

Peeta shakes his head. "Not as long as she's in the arena," he states without turning from the fireplace.

Arend walks over to stand behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I know it never looks good to take out your district partner, but maybe someone will get her before you have to. You just stay alive until then."

Peeta turns to look at Arend shaking his head with a wry smile.

"You really don't know, do you?" Peeta asks.

Arend narrows his eyes in confusion. "What don't I know?"

Peeta sighs and looks down at the floor. "There's no way that she'll die before I do," he whispers.

"How can you know that?" I interject.

"Because I'll protect her. I've known her my entire life. I can't win knowing it's because she lost. If anything, I'll make sure she wins because of me." The intensity of his voice confirms what I already know.

This is the last time I'll ever see my brother.

* * *

When Arend and I get home, we're silent. We each retreat to a separate corner of our room and keep to ourselves. I sit on the floor, wrap my arms around my knees, and try not to think. I think I hear my mother crying, but I won't let myself believe it. If she's crying – the woman who sees family as a loose association – then I'm going to be a sobbing mess sooner rather than later. And I'd rather not cry. I want to be strong for my brother, believe that he has a chance, even if he doesn't believe it himself. Crying doesn't fit with that.

Someone starts knocking on the door, but I don't answer it. I know it's just someone dropping by to offer his or her condolences, and I'm not nearly ready for that. I bury my head in my arms and try to drown out the second round of knocking. After it subsides, I hear the door open and someone climbing the stairs. The door to the room pushes open and I raise my head to see Shira standing in the doorway, eyes red from tears. She looks relieved to see me, and I'm relieved to see her as well. She stares at me until I acknowledge her. After a moment, I nod my head in her direction, inclining my head to the spot next to me, implying she should sit.

Arend takes this opportunity to stand up and leave the room. I'm not sure if it's to give Shira and me privacy or if he just can't take seeing us together right now. Whatever his motivation, I'm glad he's not in the room when she makes her way over to me, looking worn and haggard from the day's events.

She sidesteps the now ownerless bed and sits next to me, our shoulders touching. We don't say anything, just sit together, pulling strength from each other. Finally, as she sees my walls around about to crumble, she wraps her arms around my waist and sets her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight to me. I take in another shaky breath before the tears start flowing. Not many, just a few, and I know I should be embarrassed to be crying in front of her, but right now I just need to let go. I tighten my grip – maybe almost too tight – but she doesn't complain. We still haven't uttered a word, but we both know talk is useless in this situation.

My father walks in a few minutes later and retreats to the room he shares with my mother. When he enters the wailing gets louder, coming from two people now, and I feel the tears start to stream down my cheeks in earnest.

I don't ask my father where he's been. He left before our time was done with Peeta, saying he was going to check on our mother. He arrived home after we did. I have a sinking feeling he went to visit the Everdeen girl, to let her know about Peeta's strategy. It really was the only chance that he had left.

Perhaps he could talk her into helping him, at least initially. Or maybe my father was asking her to end his suffering quickly. Either way would be a godsend, really, since he declared he wasn't planning to make it out of the arena. If Katniss takes him out humanely before someone has the opportunity to gore him for their own sick pleasure, it's almost as good as a win for District 12.

My stomach rolls when I realize I've just been hoping my brother dies first. I've already gone against my convictions; I've stopped believing in him.

I wipe the tears from my face and steel my resolve. I can't do this to him. I can't afford to buy a gift for him in the arena, so the next best thing I can send him is faith: faith in his abilities and faith in himself. I can only hope that faith travels long distances.

Shira and I stay curled up together until long after the sun goes down. When she finally gets up to go home, she kisses me softly on the lips. In that moment, I know she isn't my sort-of-girlfriend anymore. She sat with me all day, comforted me, let me wrap my arms around her to protect her. I just needed to protect something, since I can't protect Peeta, and she let me protect her. She'll keep it up too. She's not just my girlfriend now. She's the girl I'm going to marry. I'm sure of it. She's the girl I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. She's the girl that's going to laugh at me when I stumble through a proposal, then ask me what took so long. She's the girl that's going to cry with me, worrying that one of our children will be picked for the Games. She's the girl that's going to suggest we name our first son Peeta.


End file.
